


Sanguinalia Night

by grimmauxillatrix



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Sheer Unadulterated Fluff, gratuitously invented backstory, slightly OOC, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmauxillatrix/pseuds/grimmauxillatrix
Summary: The Angel seemed to be just as surprised that he'd appeared in Cain's bedroom as Cain was himself. He'd been lighting a votive candle in front of his old, old icon of Sanguinius- the last thing he'd held onto from his childhood at schola- when there was a flash of bright light and suddenly he was being knocked into his dresser by large wings.---Cain and Sanguinius meet. It goes pretty nicely, actually.





	Sanguinalia Night

**Author's Note:**

> Just some nice fluff where Cain and Sanguinius meet and snuggle. That's it, that's the fic. I've invented a good part of Cain's backstory from scratch based on what's in the books. They're both probably slightly OOC, but Cain can't be a cocky Commissar 24/7, 365, can he? He probably needs to let it all out on occasion too, especially since therapists don't exist in Warhammer 40k.

The Angel seemed to be just as surprised that he'd appeared in Cain's bedroom as Cain was himself. He'd been lighting a votive candle in front of his old, old icon of Sanguinius- the last thing he'd held onto from his childhood at schola- when there was a flash of bright light and suddenly he was being knocked into his dresser by large wings. 

"Sorry!" Was the first thing the apparition said. Then "We're not on Baal, are we?"

"No," Cain replied with his usual remarkable aplomb as he picked himself, the lighter and the candle off the floor. "We're on Vallis."

"That's very odd." Sanguinius said with a frown, tucking his wings in as tightly as he could as he peered around himself. "Usually that's where I wind up around this season." His sweep of the room done, he finally focused his attention on Cain. "Who are you?"

The Primarch’s full attention on Cain left him dizzy, and a little lightheaded. He wasn’t sure if the glow around Sanguinius was his imagination, the apparition, or the lamp he’d knocked over.  
“Ciaphas Cain.” He manages to say, his usual quip about “not knowing who the Hero of the Imperium was” forgotten entirely. “Why are you in my bedroom?” He does succeed in asking.

Sanguinius shrugs, and his wings flutter out again with the motion. Cain nearly swoons. “I am not sure either. Usually I find myself where I am needed- Baal, a shrine world, in the heat of battle.” He pauses, looking down at Cain. A softer, more thoughtful expression appears on his face, and an atmospheric change washes through the room. It’s easier for the Commissar to breathe, and he’s no longer in the grip of an overwhelming sense of awe and fear.

“Do you need me?”

Cain instinctively shakes his head, but he’s been flayed open already, emotions laid bare. He changes it to a nod as tears begin to well up in his eyes. It’s incredibly embarrassing, and he makes a motion to wipe them away, as though he were ten years old again. 

Sanguinius casts about for a moment, then sits on the bed. There’s a horrific, audible creak and the bed is noticeably bending where he’s sitting. He takes the entire thing up and then some, wings trailing on the floor and for a second Cain is so /embarrassed/that he doesn’t have a rug or anything to prevent the sullying of the Primarch’s feathers.  
The mattress’ springs squeak when the Angel pats the mattress next to himself.

“Do you want to sit and talk about it?”

He does. He shuffles over and pauses. The only space to sit is right next to the Primarch, tucked comfortably under his wing. It’s as though somehow Sanguinius had delved into Cain’s tiny childhood, pulled out his most fervent fantasies, and offered them to him. 

His pause makes Sanguinius roll his eyes and sigh. “Do you want to sit or not? I’m not here to watch you waffle.” Cain sits. Sanguinius seems completely done with his hesitation and worry that /this isn’t the right way to treat a Primarch/ and sweeps him against his side with both arm and wing. It’s warm, and dark, and it is deeply, soul-achingly comforting. Despite himself, Cain begins to cry. A large hand maintains firm, reassuring pressure against his side as he proceeds to bawl his eyes out. Once he starts crying, Cain finds he can’t stop. At some point he’s pulled gently into the Primarch’s arms and allowed to dry his tears in the soft shirt he’s wearing. He sniffs when he’s finally run out of tears and he begins to talk.

“It IS Sanguinalia tonight.” 

“Mhhm.” Sanguinius responds.

“It would be inappropriate for me to burden my guardsmen with my presence on a holiday.”

“They wouldn’t welcome you?”

“They would. But Sanguinalia is a bad holiday for me.” 

The silence hangs between them, patient. Sanguinius strokes Cain’s hair, slowly, and Cain nearly melts at the touch.

“I lost my parents when I was very young, and I was taken in by a schola- Our Angel of Mercy. Most of the other students had homes to go to for holiday, but I didn’t. So I’d go in the chapel- your chapel- and hide from the sisters. Every year, until I graduated out. One of the sisters knew, and gave me that,” he makes a motion at the icon. “When I left. Couldn’t “celebrate” for years afterwards, they don’t like holidays in officers training. Always made it a habit to, uh, thank you for being there for me on the holiday, even though you weren’t, clearly.” Cain snorts at how ridiculous that sounds.

“I appreciate it.” Sanguinius says, without a hint of irony. He continues to stroke Cain’s hair, then bends his head and presses a gentle kiss to his head. It’s warm and sends tingles through Cain’s entire body. 

“I do know who you are, Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium,” he says, and Cain wants to rear back and accuse him of lying, but the Primarch’s hand holds him firmly in place. “And I appreciate your honesty. I’m happy to be here for you.”

“Doesn’t your Chapter need you?” Cain asks, and Sanguinius gives him a much firmer pat. 

“Do not be so self sacrificial. It’s not a good look for you. I am there when they need me. I am here when you need me. Now,” he said in a tone that brooked not even the most sincere of protestations. “What would you like to do?”  
So many things rise to the top of Cain’s thoughts, and jostle about for attention, and he’s forced to push them away, one by one. “Can you just…. Stay here. With me?”

“I will as long as I am able.” Sanguinius promises, and scoots backwards along the bed. Cain is most thoroughly snuggled up against the Primarch’s chest again, and enveloped in a comforting wing. “Sleep, Commissar. Sleep easily and well.”

In the morning, Cain wakes up under a blanket and to a dent in his bed. It’s still warm, or he’d have thought he’d imagined it. As he rubs the crust from his eyes, he catches sight of a white feather, neatly tucked into the frame of the old icon. It looks like a promise.


End file.
